


Four Times King Pellinore Almost Caught The Questing Beast (And The One Time He Did)

by goldenteaset



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Once and Future King Series - T. H. White
Genre: 4+1 Things, Celebrations, Enemies to Friends, Food Porn, Gen, Huddling For Warmth, Humor, King Pellinore's luck is not the greatest, Minor Character Death, Playing a little fast-and-loose with Robin Wood, Quests, The Questing Beast is far too easily offended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:20:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3175886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenteaset/pseuds/goldenteaset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Questing Beast has finished its meal, it tosses some leftover meat to the bratchet (who eagerly eats), curls up into a ball, bony tail swaying lazily, and falls asleep.  </p>
<p>Now is my chance! Prince Pellinore inwardly exults as he shifts on his branch, net ready to fall—</p>
<p>And then his spectacles fall instead. Gleaming in the sun like a fish’s scales, down and down they go, off his nose, through the cool forest air…and into the embers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times King Pellinore Almost Caught The Questing Beast (And The One Time He Did)

**Author's Note:**

> Because King Pellinore is at his best when things don't go his way, and he perseveres regardless. 
> 
> Also, I wound up implying Robin Wood's more spirit than man (versus in-canon, where he lived eighty-seven). Take it as you will--Robin could just be messing with poor King Pellinore, who knows?
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own The Once and Future King.

**One.**

Prince Pellinore suspects rather early on in his Questing career that he isn’t cut out for this. Indeed, everything seems to be against him, from his constantly-fogging spectacles to his eternally-excitable bratchet that continually manages to wrap herself around a tree. He has gotten lost precisely thirteen times, and he has only been on the road for a few months now.

It’s enough to make a lesser man give up. But Prince Pellinore is indeed a _Prince_ , despite contrary appearances, and as a rule Princes are the stubborn sort who will only give up a Quest when home and hearth tug too strongly at the heart to be ignored. (Besides, his mother would be most disappointed if he gave up so soon in his Questing career.)

And since it is not home and hearth but belly and food that are tugging at his heart, Prince Pellinore untangles his unruly young bratchet, sits down at the base of an oak tree and unpacks his lunch. It’s simple fare—dried lamb and a horn of red wine—but to a hungry young Prince like him it’s delicious just the same. He feeds some lamb to his bratchet, to calm her nerves after having been tied up again, and the pup is so pleased she flops her head onto his lap and begins drooling contentedly.

It is at that precise moment, in the still of the wood and the last bite of lamb, that a unfamiliar string of saliva splatters onto his helmet. It smells like fish.

He snaps his head upwards, and finds himself staring eye-to-eye with what can only be the Questing Beast. The stare lasts for but a moment; the yellow reptilian eyes blink curiously at him, and he at them.

Prince Pellinore lifts up the last bite of lamb, and the moment is gone. The Questing Beast gallops away with an atrocious howling noise as loud as a hundred hounds that would make any lesser knight soil himself, and merely leaves Prince Pellinore clutching his throbbing head in agony. (Perhaps he _is_ cut out for this after all.)

The bratchet has no such problems; she scampers off after the Beast with her own shrill howls, and Prince Pellinore stumbles after her, his heart practically aflame. _It truly exists! Mother was right after all! I shall bring it to her by next Sunday, and we three shall sit by the fire and drink mulled wine and tell of our adventures. Er, if the Beast can talk, that is._

His hopes are dashed by the bratchet returning to his side with only a wagging tail.

**Two.**  

Prince Pellinore has sent a letter to his mother via another traveler’s carrier pigeon detailing his brush with the Questing Beast, and many months later the same pigeon returns, bearing a reply. He eagerly opens it, not bothering to dismount from his horse. The pigeon flies off to return to its master.

The letter contains the usual idle talk one expects from a relative, which is then followed by _Good son, have you tried setting a trap of food? Assuredly, the Beast must be as hungry as you, perhaps more._

Which is a wonderful idea, one that makes Prince Pellinore’s ears burn in embarrassment due to having not thought of it. But still, a plan is a plan, and he eagerly prepares. He catches a stag, and while it roasts merrily on a spit, he does his best to make a net of vines. He has to battle with his bratchet as he ties the vines together (she craves something to chew, it seems, and not even a deer bone will suffice), as well as attempting to keep her away from the fire.

Once everything seems ready, Prince Pellinore carefully scales the gnarled old oak tree he’s been camped under (and hopes _very_ much the huge gashes in the bark he leaves behind from his armor don’t give him away). His poor befuddled bratchet whimpers, paces around the trunk and looks up at him with her huge brown eyes.

“Don’t you worry, girl,” he whispers down to her, and her too-huge ears perk up in acknowledgement. “You and I, we shall catch this beastly Beast before long! And then we shall go home to Mother, and tell her of our adventures. Rather, I shall, _you_ will no doubt lie by the fire with your fellows.”

The bratchet whimpers again and lays her head and paws on a large root in a most despondent manner. Prince Pellinore ignores the soft ache in his heart at the sight of her and instead hoists his woven net over his head and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits, until the very concept of waiting and all of its alternate terms in the thesaurus have turned into amorphous blobs in his mind.

When the Questing Beast _finally_ arrives at the precise point when Pellinore’s Princely arms are about to go numb—whether from strain or boredom, he isn’t sure—he wants to weep in relief. It snuffles and trudges along on its magnificent leonine haunches and hart’s feet, looking as much a King as any man Prince Pellinore has ever seen. Its long scaly neck sways from side to side, and a forked purple tongue pokes out and wiggles periodically, as if testing the air.

It spots the roast, and ambles over as though it has all the time in the world. Prince Pellinore’s heart catches when it notices the forlorn bratchet—only for him to let out a soft sigh of relief when both Beast and bratchet ignore each other completely. _Not that you_ should _, you horrible hunting partner you, but this once I suppose you’ve done the right thing, what?_

Once the Questing Beast realizes the roast deer is edible, it lies down in a rather doglike fashion and begins tearing off huge chunks of flesh without preamble. Prince Pellinore winces at the harsh, wet _rrrip_ ping noises, the nauseating _crunch_ and _snap_ of bone, and the slobbering noises that cap off the gruesome feast. He tries his best to keep his lunch down, and somehow succeeds.

When the Questing Beast has finished its meal, it tosses some leftover meat to the bratchet (who eagerly eats), curls up into a ball, bony tail swaying lazily, and falls asleep.  

_Now is my chance!_ Prince Pellinore inwardly exults as he shifts on his branch, net ready to fall—

And then his spectacles fall instead. Gleaming in the sun like a fish’s scales, down and down they go, off his nose, through the cool forest air…and into the embers.

He can’t help it. He lets out a wail both forlorn and frustrated, and the Questing Beast jolts awake and is gone in a flurry of excitement.

Prince Pellinore tries to climb down and jump after the Beast at the same time, and pays for his multitasking by tumbling out of the tree and nearly squishing his poor, confused bratchet. The only thing that saves him from multiple broken limbs is his armor.

His spectacles are nothing but twisted metal and molten glass, and the only rational thought stumbling drunkenly through his head is _Mother is going to find a way to travel here and murder me in my sleep…_

There are, however, two good things that come out of the whole fiasco. The first is that due to all the commotion, the Questing Beast’s stomach had an upset and left him a trail of foul-smelling vomit and fewmets to follow for a few days. The second is that, unbeknownst to him, his mother packed him enough extra pairs of spectacles to prevent such accidents from occurring again.

**Three.**  

Prince Pellinore has literally ran into celebrations before (usually by being late), but this is the first time in his memory a celebration has run into _him._

It’s a huge throng of men in green, and a few women as well. Their leader appears to be a sinewy fellow carrying a longbow and a silver bugle, and laughing a laugh deep and rich and joyous to behold.

Then the throng spots him, and the laughter dies. Both parties stare awkwardly at each other, and Prince Pellinore’s ears begin to burn. It occurs to him this is the first time he’s seen people in a very long time indeed, possibly years.

“I-I beg your pardon, good sirs—and ladies!” he cries, as his accursed visor _clangs_ down and dips his world into darkness before he shoves it upward again. “As this is your merry-making place, I shall leave immediately, what!”

“Really? But why?” asks the bugle-carrying man with a jaunty smile. “We have plenty of room for one more merry-maker, sir knight! Rest assured, we will not harm you.”

“…Well, then, how can I say no to that?” Prince Pellinore says, and he eagerly disembarks.

It soon becomes clear that Prince Pellinore can try as hard as he might, can live and dream and eat and joke with all his youthful heart, but he will _never_ be able to make merry like this bunch. His body couldn’t take it.

The food is wilderness-fresh; roast pig with the skin still crackling, a huge trout glazed with honey, herbs and crushed nuts, mushrooms stuffed with cheese and sausage, and sweet blackberry cakes.

The merriment itself is wild and light-hearted, but not without rational thought. A small band is assembled of pipers and drummers, and those who cannot play sing at the top of their lungs and dance with the vigor of free folk. Prince Pellinore finds himself dragged into the fray multiple times by several different people, and is pleased to discover that he still knows all the dance steps after so long on the road. Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite have the vigor for that sort of thing anymore—he’s already gone bow-legged from riding.

Still, he feels very full, very tired, and very happy once the celebration reaches its end at the rising of the moon. (He didn’t think to ask what the celebration _was_ ; he assumes it was to celebrate the return of some huntsmen.)

As he prepares to go, Sir Robin, the leader of these revelries, stops him before he climbs atop his horse. His hand is calloused and looks dark brown on Prince Pellinore’s silvery armor.

“You said your name is Prince Pellinore, correct?” Sir Robin asks, his smile a little more tired than before.

“I believe I did—are you, perhaps, familiar with my family and their Quest, what?”

“Yes, but that isn’t what I want to speak of.” Sir Robin breathes in, a soft, sad sound, and when he exhales Prince Pellinore suspects what is to come.

“I’m afraid your mother the Queen Regent is dead. Your brother has assumed the throne, as is his right.”

“And after him, I must be King,” Pellinore says softly, his heart sinking in his chest like a stone.

“I’m afraid so.” Sir Robin looks at him in a way that reminds Pellinore sharply of his mother. “You may not be aware, but I find Kings a dubious sort. Tell me, when you become King, how would you treat your people?”

Pellinore knows his answer as he straightens his back and adjusts his spectacles thoughtfully. “As well as you treat yours, Sir. That is, if I return from my Quest and my brother isn’t dead.”

Sir Robin’s rich, joyous laugh is softer, but no less powerful than the first time Pellinore heard it. “I can think of worse models of Kingship,” he says, his eyes unnaturally bright. “You ought to try out the ‘King’ title, wear it for a bit. You may as well see if it fits before you wear it, after all.”

Pellinore fumbles with his spectacles. “I-I hope I didn’t offend—”

“Worry not, my Kingly friend! It takes much to offend me, and you are not the sort to impose on a fellow’s freedom, as other royals have.”

_That is an old, old voice. Not a voice to cross, Heavens no._

Pellinore squints at Sir Robin. “…If I may, just how old _are_ you, Sir Robin?”

Sir Robin rubs at the back of his neck in a bashful manner. “If I may be so bold…as old as justice. But not as old as Sherwood.”

Pellinore suspects that’s all the answer he’ll get, and climbs atop his horse. His bratchet is scampering around his feet, itching to move on.

“Oh,” Sir Robin says, as Pellinore readies his reigns. “And if you want to know where the Beast Glatisant is, why, it’s been watching our revels for quite some time.”

Pellinore snaps his head around just in time to hear a familiar howl burst from the nearby trees, followed by giddy galumphing fading fast.

“The-The Bea—?”

“No time now, King Pellinore; farewell and Godspeed,” Sir Robin says, smacking his horse smartly on the side and forcing him off and away.

Under the light of the moon, King Pellinore thinks of his mother and hopes she has a good view from the stars.

**Four.**  

King Pellinore is well and truly stumped this time, stuck in the unrelenting damp darkness of yet another cave. Both horse and bratchet are currently missing, and all he has is his sword, armor, and spectacles. _The Questing Beast may very well have left this dratted cave_ days _ago, and left me here to rot. Hmm…on the other hand, probably not. The Beast seems rather courteous when it comes to being chased; he’s most likely waiting outside for me to come out and begin the chase again._

With a slightly lighter heart, King Pellinore begins his search for the exit anew, running his hands across the bumps in the rock walls and sniffing now and then, to catch a whiff of fresh air from outside. There’s a faint smell now and then that _could_ be fresh air, but there’s a mugginess to it that suggests otherwise. _Actually, it smells a touch like…warm metal._

He moves a little slower now, wary of stepping or accidentally cutting his hand on an unsheathed sword or other gruesome token of a previous lost traveler. His steps don’t echo so much as carry a thick _thud_ and _clank_ through the cave; it’s so small there is no room for an echo.

King Pellinore ducks his head to avoid hitting it on an stalactite, only to trip on a young stalagmite and go tumbling down—the “path” he’d been walking along is now a steep hill. He makes quite the clangor as he goes, yelping and cursing, his armor _clang_ ing against rocks.

When he finally lands at the bottom of the hill, he immediately begins groping about for his spectacles and helmet (both fell off near the end of his tumble). He hopes he’s closer to the exit than he was before—though he suspects otherwise; his luck is poor even compared to his Great-Great-Grandsire who started the whole Questing Beast tradition. (Said Grandsire’s luck was so poor their date of birth, death, and their gender were never recorded in the family tree.)

King Pellinore finds his helmet first, perched atop a stalagmite like a hat-rack. After quickly brushing the vile-smelling grime off the inside, he jams it back onto his head and continues hunting for his spectacles. _Would that I had better eyesight, what! Then I wouldn’t need these confounded spectacles, and could be out of this beastly place in a more timely fashion!_

_…Ah, and here they are!_

King Pellinore sighs with relief and plucks his spectacles from the inside of some golden cup or other. Glad to see that they’re unharmed (cleaner than before, in fact), he looks down at the rusted cup and has an idea.

Getting onto flatter ground, he takes the cup (the smell of which he _hopes_ is merely copper) and places on the ground, muttering to it “I’m getting a little desperate here, cup, so if you please…” before spinning it around. It scrapes almost musically against the rock, but he pays it no mind.

The cup halts and rolls back down among the rocks and rusted metal just as King Pellinore catches a whiff of cool, dew-scented morning air wafting through the cave. It’s straight ahead.

“Thank you, old cup, what,” is all King Pellinore has time to say before he dashes off toward sweet, sweet freedom.

As soon as he bursts out of the cave, he finds his bratchet, horse and the Questing Beast waiting for him by the nearby stream. King Pellinore slumps onto his knees and laughs in manic delight as the morning sun warms his face and birds trill their good mornings to one another.

“Oh, dear Questing Beast,” he says breathlessly, as the sun gleams orange off the Beast’s scaled head and neck. “I hoped you would be here! Truly, you’re a sight for weary eyes, what…”

Unfortunately, the Questing Beast seems less delighted. In fact, judging by the narrowing of its eyes and the unmistakable disgust crawling onto its face like a maggot, it seems… _offended._

“Oh dear.” King Pellinore winces at that look and immediately aims to repent. “Have I said something wrong, what? Oh, do tell, dear Beast, so that we may begin our chase without any bad feelings between us!”

In response, the Beast lets out a stag-like snort (startling a flock of sparrows out of a tree) and charges away, not even bothering to howl as it goes.

King Pellinore awkwardly clambers atop his horse and gallops after it, his bratchet yelping merrily by his side.

As he rides (and finds one measly fewmet), he puzzles over the Questing Beast’s reaction until his head hurts and he can think no more.

**Five.**  

It is officially _the_ coldest winter King Pellinore has ever known—and it’s nearly spring. The snows are almost too high for his horse to breach. Several trees have snapped and crashed to the hard ground under the weight of their frozen branches. The snow alternates between soft, thick and easy to trip on, and frozen, thick and liable to cut into his horse’s flanks when trudging through it.

King Pellinore suspects his horse won’t make it, but in a fit of stubbornness he urges his horse on, feeds it more than himself or his bratchet combined, reassures it and tends to its wounds. He prays, hopes and encourages, and all the while his horse’s head begins to hang lower and lower, snow clinging to its eyelashes.

One day, when the trio has stopped to rest under a willow, the horse lets out a long, shuddering breath and _thuds_ to the ground. The last thing it sees is the snow it trudged so tirelessly through beginning to melt away.

“Thank you for your service, old chap,” King Pellinore says softly, though he knows the horse can’t hear him.

For a long while, he stares at the corpse of his horse, then at his pack, then back again. _What should I do? I can’t salt it, and I can’t just cook the whole thing and eat it now. And besides…he’s been a good companion, it wouldn’t do to treat him like food or a waste, what?_

The answer comes when his bratchet whines and begins sniffing the corpse. With a heavy heart, he gives his assent.

He notes idly that his breathing is a little thicker than normal—his chest doesn’t normally rattle so when he breathes, but he knows a cold when he sees one and pays it no mind.

The shaking chills are because he’s cold, of course, so he stuffs himself into his bedroll and waits for the annoying shuddering to pass. It doesn’t.

The stiff muscles and pounding headache are just a side-effect of traveling; they’ll go away after a good sleep.

When the foul business is still there even after said sleep, King Pellinore lets out a frustrated, growling sigh and admits _Perhaps this cold is more serious after all, what?_

He barely notices the ground shaking under him, or his bratchet barking excitedly and trying to guard her meat.

It isn’t until he is surrounded suddenly by intense warmth and a rumbling noise that he looks up, bleary-eyed, and meets two familiar yellow reptile eyes staring curiously down at him.

“…I believe (cough) I figured out how I offended you,” King Pellinore manages to rasp, his voice dissolving into phlegm-laden coughs before he can say “what”. He takes as deep a breath as he can before continuing. “You prefer…‘Beast Glatisant’, yes?”

The Beast Glatisant nods and lets out a soft, pleased rumble. It curls about him tightly, and King Pellinore feels very, very small. Such a feeling would be embarrassing, if not for the fact that he _finally_ feels warm again.

He feels himself drifting off to sleep, and wants very much to say something to The Beast Glatisant—such as _Forgive my rudeness, Sir Robin told me your name and I clear forgot, what_ or _How come you haven’t aged a day since I first saw you, is it part of your Questing Contract?_ The most pertinent, though, is _Just what are_ you _crying for, dear friend, that’s quite irregular, what?_

Unfortunately, before he can ask, he’s dragged into restless dreams of a bright kingdom drenched in bloody rain and a tournament with a bitter, brutal end.

When he wakes, feeling a little livelier and with no memory of those dreams, he finds to his surprise that the Beast Glatisant is still warm by his side, and his bratchet has made herself comfortable by the Beast’s tail.

“Er,” King Pellinore says, surprised that his throat isn’t sore anymore and his headache is gone. “…If I may…good morning?”

The Beast Glatisant cracks open one eye and lets out a tremendous yawn (showing off some disturbingly needle-sharp teeth in the process). It looks him over in the indulgent way a pampered housecat would look at its food-bearing owner.

“I’ll take that as a yes, what,” King Pellinore mutters to himself, and struggles to his feet—only for the Beast Glatisant’s tail to swoop down as if from nowhere and smack him back down to the ground.

The Beast narrows its eyes at him and places its tail firmly on his chest. Clearly the healer is in, and wants to be obeyed.

Reluctantly, King Pellinore does so. Though the Beast can’t talk, it seems quite willing to listen as he tells of childhood memories or stories he’s heard from wandering bards and other such things. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it seems quite curious about the other Pellinores—by now King Pellinore is beginning to suspect “his” Beast is more “ _their_ ” Beast, and that the next Pellinore in line will have a very old, wily foe on their hands.

Every so often, the Beast Glatisant will shed a tear or two. At first, he thinks it’s because the stories he’s telling are sad (many of them are, he enjoys the occasional tragedy). But soon it becomes apparent that the Beast is instead trying to heal him, and _now_ he realizes why he’s had such luck avoiding hungry animals or violent brigands; after all, who would _dare_ come between a Quest and their Hunter?

It doesn’t take long for King Pellinore to feel much better. When he’s allowed to get to his feet, he feels as well-rested and strong as he did when he first left home so long ago. He’s so grateful he offers the Beast Glatisant its choice of horse meat—which the bratchet reluctantly agrees to.

Once the Beast has had its fill, King Pellinore seizes upon his chance and claps his hand on its muscled shoulder. The Beast Glatisant turns its scaly head toward him, looking quite confused as it licks away any remnants of blood from its jaws.

“Caught you!” King Pellinore says, his heart light and racing.

The Beast Glatisant lets out a sound that _might_ be a chuckle, and taps its tail against his shoulder. Clearly, its response is “No, caught _you._ ”

_I suppose one_ could _be both catcher and caught, what?_

The whole business seems almost… _anticlimactic_ , and he has the distinct impression that this is how many a Pellinore felt. Thankfully, the solution is quite simple.

King Pellinore sighs dramatically and adjusts his spectacles. “Very well, I suppose. Give me your best trail, Beast Glatisant, and I will gladly follow!”

The Beast Glatisant howls in sheer delight, and as it dashes away the sound warms him down to his bones.

“Come, foolish bratchet, what!” King Pellinore cries, and the Quest resumes.


End file.
